


Restart Your Engines

by anticyclone



Category: Good Omens (TV), Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: (When isn't he?), Affectionate Bickering, Crossover, Established Relationship, Garak being suspicious, Happy Ending, Holodeck Malfunctions, Holodecks/Holosuites, Humor, M/M, but Quark doesn't get rich
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23706385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anticyclone/pseuds/anticyclone
Summary: On their way home from a star-hopping vacation, Aziraphale and Crowley decide to spend a few days at Deep Space Nine. There's holosuites to be rented and good conversation to be had. (Oh, don't the tailor and his dear doctor remind Aziraphale of earlier days.)But… maybe when you can warp reality through the power of imagination, holosuite games aren't the best double-date activity. For one, Odo would really like to know why there's acaron his Promenade.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 24
Kudos: 94





	1. Chapter 1

"Humans never take the time to _savor_ their food."

"I wouldn't say never, Mr. Garak. I for one am enjoying this lunch."

"Mr. Aziraphale, how much experience do you have with humans?"

"Mr. Garak! Of course I am quite human myself."

Aziraphale picked up the wide-bottomed blue cup this station's replicators were programmed to provide raktajino in. At least in the privacy of his own head, he did have to admit that it was better in a traditional cup. Still, he was looking forward to the arrival of the ship that would take them back to Earth. He missed London. He missed his own mugs. It was the little things an angel craved when he went off-planet. Also, he would swear on his old sword that this station's replicators just didn't make raktajino as well as the Klingon cafe in Soho.

Across the table Garak widened his eyes slightly. There was an unmistakable curl to the corner of his mouth. "Pardon me, Mr. Aziraphale. I suppose it's my Cardassian nature, to suspect things based on mere threads of evidence."

Aziraphale smiled. "Perhaps it's in your nature as a tailor."

"A tailor? Oh, yes, _threads,_ haha." Garak shook his head. "Certainly you aren't going to insist that your companion is human, however."

"I can't imagine where you'd get that idea," Aziraphale said, hoping Crowley hadn't done anything foolish that morning.

"One semi-reptilian humanoid to another, Mr. Aziraphale."

Aziraphale took a leisurely sip of his raktajino before setting his cup back on the table. "What a curious notion. Was it the shoes?"

"It wasn't not the shoes," Garak said. Cardassians, in Aziraphale's extremely limited experience (Garak), did not shrug. But he did tilt his head and make the suggestion of a dismissive gesture with one hand.

"They're not real, of course. Crowley simply enjoys the aesthetic."

"He does have his own unique grasp of aesthetic, doesn't he?"

"Do you disapprove?"

"The opposite!" Garak smiled again, this time with the hint of teeth. "He came into my shop this morning. Just after I opened. He purchased a dress I had up in the window."

"Oh, the red one? He couldn't stop talking about it yesterday evening. We passed your shopfront on our way through the Promenade." And what a charming name for a main street. Aziraphale thought that Deep Space 9 itself was perhaps rather, well. He did enjoy being able to say that he and Crowley had strolled along the Promenade.

"I trust you'll find that it suits him. I did make the necessary adjustments for fit, of course."

"Crowley usually prefers - replicated clothing," Aziraphale said, absolutely certain from the way Garak's eyes moved that he had caught the slight pause as Aziraphale edited himself out of saying _miracled._ "But we've been picking up souvenirs to take home, you see."

"I'm quite flattered to have one of my creations chosen."

"Garak! I'm sorry I'm … late."

Aziraphale and Garak both turned to see a human man in a Starfleet sciences uniform rapidly coming to a halt a couple of feet from their table. He was skinny and angled, and the smile on his face wavered somewhat when he met eyes with Aziraphale.

"Have I taken your seat?" Aziraphale asked. "I'm terribly sorry-"

"Don't be, Mr. Aziraphale," Garak said, immediately. He glanced sideways at the human and picked up his fork. "If Dr. Bashir isn't late to lunch, he nearly swallows it whole." He pointed his fork at Aziraphale. "Just as I said: humans don't savor their food."

The man, presumably one Dr. Bashir, folded his hands together behind his back. For all his angles, the look on his face reminded Aziraphale of nothing so much as his own expression when he finally looked up from a book to find Crowley all done up in finery, asleep on the couch, and the clock reading a time well past some reservation they'd had.

"My meeting ran over," Bashir said.

Aziraphale could have told him not to say that, but he knew better than to intrude. Taking another sip of his raktajino conveniently allowed him not to comment.

"Meetings tend to do that. Funny, how it always seems to be so unexpected," Garak replied. "Nothing to worry about, Doctor. Mr. Aziraphale was looking for a seat and I was pleased to offer him one."

There was not enough raktajino in his mug to continue drinking it through the rest of this conversation. He said, over his half-full plate, "I am nearly finished."

"Please don't rush on my account," Bashir said. "I am the one who was late."

"Hmm," Garak said. He took a bite of his food.

Aziraphale glanced down the walkway of the Promenade, but still didn't see any hint of Crowley's approach. Who knew how long that holosuite program could run. Their ship back to Earth didn't depart for two days. Aziraphale had gently suggested that the Ferengi proprietor of the bar would suspect something if Crowley stayed in the holosuite _that_ long, and also that Aziraphale himself would be miffed, but they hadn't made any plans beyond trying the Klingon restaurant that evening.

"Then you simply must join us," he said, deliberately annoying the sharp expression that flitted over Garak's face. Bashir started to protest and Aziraphale moved his plate over. "Don't be silly, there's plenty of room. Besides, it's good to hear a familiar accent."

"I…" Bashir glanced at Garak, who did _not_ make eye contact with him, and reluctantly unclasped his hands from behind his back. "Of course, Mr… Azirafell?"

"Aziraphale." Although that did send him back. At some point he would have to shift his name again, but this era had made it pleasantly possible to use his own for a while.

"Dr. Julian Bashir. I'm the Chief Medical Officer on this station."

"Oh! It must have been a very important meeting."

Garak directed another sharp expression his way, although he continued to eat instead of commenting.

"I'll be right back," Bashir said.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Garak leaned forward slightly. "You didn't have to put yourself to that trouble, my friend."

"It was no trouble." Aziraphale picked his fork back up and smiled innocently. "In my experience, making a small concession goes a long way toward smoothing out disagreements with one's partner."

"I can't imagine where you'd get that idea," Garak said, parroting his own earlier words back to him. "Dr. Bashir is an acquaintance, that's all."

He looked a little smug for someone who was supposed to be objecting to an untruth, though. And naturally the hint of smugness disappeared the instant Bashir returned to the table with a tray of food in one hand and a chair pilfered from a nearby table in the other.

"My mistake," Aziraphale murmured. He turned to their new companion before there could be any questions about what his apology was for. "Forgive my prying, but you are from England?"

"Yes. But we moved around a lot."

"We go where life takes us, sometimes," Aziraphale said. Bashir gave him a small smile and began eating, food that Aziraphale recognized as Bajoran, although he didn't think he'd had that particular dish yet. He said, "My partner and I have lived many places - he wants to get a flat in Mayfair when we return to Earth, in fact."

Bashir's mouth was full, so he didn't respond, but his eyebrows did shoot up. Aziraphale considered it significant that Garak saw this and put his own fork down to ask, "Where do you live now?"

"Above an old family archive in Soho. There's more than enough space for the both of us but Crowley says my collection is stretching the bounds of physics," he said, with only a small sigh. It was true but unfair.

"An archivist! You didn't mention that. What is it you archive, Mr. Aziraphale?"

Bashir swallowed his food and took a sip of his water. "You had half a meal together and didn't ask what he does?"

"We were discussing the merits of the restaurants on the Promenade," Garak said.

Before that conversation could get off its feet, Aziraphale cleared his throat. "I have an archive of books. Paper books. The archive itself is centuries old at this point." He smiled at the surprise on both their faces. "They still do make paper books on Earth, you know. Not many, but for certain debut authors and sometimes when a celebrated writer has produced a seminal work."

Garak looked thoughtful. "I can't recall the last time I read a paper book."

"I don't know if I've ever read a paper book," Bashir said.

"Yes, we know your Federation-centric education has been lacking," Garak said. He cast his eyes up at the offense on Bashir's face and sighed, clarifying, "Your cultural education, my dear Doctor. I make no comment on the quality of your medical training."

Aziraphale smiled again. "How interesting, Mr. Garak. I've called Crowley _my dear_ for, oh, feels like millenia. Is that a Cardassian tradition too?"

Garak smiled back. "It must be a quirk of the universal translator."

"Undoubtedly."

Bashir looked back and forth between them, eyes wide, shoulders tense. He held himself like a man watching someone defuse a bomb. With one hand tied behind their back. While blindfolded.

Which is exactly when Crowley swanned up to the table, for some reason wearing a 20th-century style tuxedo, and sunglasses that definitely belonged in the latter half of the 1900s. Bashir looked terribly startled, and Garak almost threateningly thoughtful. If Crowley noticed either of their reactions he didn't show it. He just dragged a chair up to Aziraphale's side, dropped down into it, and pressed a kiss to Aziraphale's cheek.

"Hello, dearest," Aziraphale said. He didn't look at Garak, but he did hear the tiniest catch of irritated breath from across the table. "Did you have fun in the holosuite? What on Earth are you wearing a tuxedo for?"

"For the game, obviously," Crowley said, grinning. His face was a little flushed, his currently short hair a tad more mussed than normal. He picked up Aziraphale's mug and took a sip of raktajino.

"It's replicated," Aziraphale warned him.

"Angel, nobody but you can taste the difference. It is literally the same down to the molecular level. Hi again, Garak."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Crowley," Garak replied.

He did not move to introduce Bashir, who Crowley was sizing up from behind his glasses, so Aziraphale did instead. "Crowley, this is Dr. Bashir. He's the chief medical officer here."

"Pleased to meet you," Bashir said. "May I… inquire as to what program you were running in the holosuite? Out of curiosity, of course. I'm pretty familiar with Quark's library."

Crowley glanced sideways at Aziraphale and winked behind his sunglasses. Aziraphale was forced to admit to himself that the effect, with his sleek glasses and the crisp tuxedo, was attractively roguish. Crowley said, his voice drawling, "Spy stuff. Averting the end of the world. You know, same old."

Bashir opened and shut his mouth, and at his side, Garak quietly ate another bite of food, one of the corners of his mouth quirked slightly. Bashir finally asked, "Quark let you play my holosuite program?"

"Yours?" Crowley shrugged. "Guess so. I added some customizations-"

"You edited my holosuite program?"

"No no no no," Crowley said. He held up both hands and made a cutting motion, sweeping them back and forth in front of himself. "Paid the Ferengi for a copy, probably more than it was worth, mind you, but he's the only supplier around and I didn't bring any with me. Then I made some edits. Can't have a spy game-"

"It's not a game," Bashir muttered. "It's a role playing adventure fantasy."

"-game," Crowley repeated, smoothly, "without a car. And car chases."

Aziraphale said, "Oh Crowley you didn't," and Bashir said, "You added car chases to my program? It's set in the 1960s, they didn't have autonomous vehicles back then. Do you even know how to drive a car?"

"Absolutely, of course I do," Crowley said, as Aziraphale said, "Driving is stretching the term."

Crowley glared at him.

"In this car chase," Garak said, calling Crowley's attention to him. "Are you the one chasing, or being chased?"

"Oh, love a good chase, me," Crowley said. His grin stretched his face from ear to ear. "But it's more fun to outwit and escape than it is to do the chasing, yeah? Too much like work."

"And what is it you do, Mr. Crowley? It didn't come up while I was taking your measurements this morning. By the way, I intend to have the clothing delivered to your quarters by nightfall," Garak said. At the mention of his having recorded Crowley's measurements, something flickered over the doctor's face, too quickly to be read well. Unless you were Aziraphale, who went back to eating his lunch and smiling to himself.

Crowley opened his mouth, paused, and decided to say, "I write holosuite programs."

Which wasn't _untrue._ It just didn't explain the…

"There's a lot of being chased down in private vehicles in the holosuite business, is there? Quark has never mentioned that," Garak said.

Bashir added, as if the topic were entirely serious, "He does live on a space station. There isn't anywhere to drive to. I think Constable Odo would object to a … scooter chase on the Promenade."

His expression pained, Garak replied, "Please do not have Chief O'Brien replicate scooters so that you can have a chase on the Promenade."

"Do you even know what a scooter is?" Bashir asked. His eyes were narrow, like he was annoyed at the mere implication that he would get involved in a race on the Promenade of any sort, but amusement threaded his words and when he took his next bite he was smiling.

"I can imagine well enough."

"Garak," Crowley said, "when I was shopping, I thought you said you were single."

Bashir choked on his food. Several people at the surrounding tables turned to see what was going on, and the doctor tried to wave them off while pressing a fist to his mouth and struggling to clear his throat. Garak's eyes narrowed, and Crowley froze with Aziraphale's raktajino halfway to his mouth. He looked over and whispered, "What did I say?"

"Mr. Garak and Dr. Bashir are just acquaintances," Aziraphale explained.

Crowley made a clicking sound against his teeth. "Rrrright," he said. He drank what was left of Aziraphale's raktajino and rushed on before Garak could say whatever he was clearly trying to pick the perfect wording for. "Anyway. Added a car chase sequence when I realized the game needed one, but didn't have time to play it."

Bashir finally stopped coughing. He took a long drink of water, put his glass down, and turned to Garak, demanding, "Acquaintances?"

"We're hardly colleagues," Garak reasoned.

"You can't think of a single word that describes us better than _acquaintances._ "

"I can think of several, but they translate terribly."

"Do they!"

Crowley looked at Aziraphale and raised an eyebrow. He accepted the bite of food Aziraphale held out to him at the end of his fork. The plate was nearly empty now.

Aziraphale asked, "Did you want to run the rest of the game together?"

Crowley stretched his arm out along the back of Aziraphale's chair. "If you're done with lunch…"

"You can't appreciate the subtleties of the Cardassian language, Doctor," Garak said.

"I'm sure the Cardassian language is the only thing going unappreciated here," Bashir replied.

Aziraphale said, "I'm not wearing a tuxedo."

There was a very smug look on Crowley's face now, like he had planned this moment. Which he probably had, minus the bickering at the other side of the table. Aziraphale might have tried to steer that conversation elsewhere, or at least excused himself from being so close to it, except that it was giving him a tiny rush of fond nostalgia. He didn't really know anything about either of these men, of course, but it did seem unlikely that Mr. Garak was a simple Cardassian tailor residing on a Bajoran space station because he wanted to, and it did seem unusual for a Starfleet doctor to be in his … acquaintance.

Crowley reached out and tapped Aziraphale's chest, just under where a tie would be fitted across his neck. "It's the 1960s, angel," he said. "Thought maybe… that tartan ascot?"

"I don't think I brought that with me."

"Check your suitcase again."

"My mistake." He paused briefly and added, "Perhaps you should offer to show Dr. Bashir the edits you made to his program."

That stopped Bashir in the middle of saying "...universal translator works perfectly when you want to criticize the books I pick out." He registered the sound of his name, blinked, and stared at them for a split second while the rest of the sentence filtered through. "You want to show me your car?"

"Crowley absolutely adores showing off the Bentley," Aziraphale answered before Crowley could. "He always uses the same code for his cars, you see."

"Can't mess with a classic," Crowley said, reflexively. Then his nose wrinkled as he realized what he'd just tacitly agreed to.

"And of course you're invited as well, Mr. Garak," Aziraphale said.

Garak's smile was sharp. "Of course I am."

Aziraphale neatly finished what was on his plate and excused the both of them under the pretense of returning to their quarters, so he could dress for the game. They agreed to meet in an hour, although Garak insisted that Bashir would never need that long for his food. Bashir wore an expression of near glee when he insisted that he had no meetings to take up the rest of his afternoon.

As soon as Aziraphale had returned his tray and mug, he slid an arm through Crowley's. Crowley tugged him up against his side as they meandered down the Promenade.

Since it was midday on the station they had a considerable crowd to walk through. Some Bajoran festival was coming up, judging from the decorations. Aziraphale made a mental note to stop by the temple and ask one of the priests about it. While they'd briefly been on Bajor itself he had collected a few recently-produced copies of various prophecies, but he hadn't had the time to learn all that much about the Bajoran calendar.

"We weren't ever that bad, were we?" Crowley asked, once they were safely out of earshot.

"We had more time than they do. I'm sure we were much worse."

"You were, maybe," Crowley teased, and kissed his temple.

***

The bar was bustling. A ship packed with people traveling for the upcoming festival had just arrived and the line for drinks was three customers deep. He had walk in through the second-floor entrance and employ some non-regulation use of elbows to make it over to the internal panel for the holosuites. Rom had never been so grateful to be working as a technician for the station and not, any longer, for his brother.

Unfortunately because he did work for the station, he couldn't turn around and leave the bar. He had to wade through the crowd to find Quark and wave a data PADD in front of the other Ferengi's face. It was the only way to get him to stop barrelling around barking at everyone still unlucky enough to be working for him.

"I'm telling you, Brother, the holosuites have improved efficiency by ten percent," Rom repeated for the third time. "I checked over all my repairs and nothing's been touched, I can't explain it!"

Quark smiled. "Rom, Rom, Rom. You're such a technical genius you can't even see it. Don't ever tell me you need me to order new parts again. Ferengi ingenuity, that's what this is, and nothing more."

"But it doesn't make any sense-"

"It doesn't need to make sense to make profit."

"Brother, it's drawing too much power! Chief O'Brien is going to want to know what happened, and I can't explain it."

"Do I look like I care what Chief O'Brien has to say?" Quark pressed a hand to his chest and scoffed. Behind him, a dabo girl flinched reflexively. "Rule of Acquisition number 52: If someone sees fit to give you a gift, take it and run before they change their mind."

"But-"

"Not another word," Quark warned him. Then he turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd, somehow reappearing behind the bar as if he'd been transported there.

Rom sighed and looked at the stairs leading up to the holosuites. Several of the suites were already in use, and he was sure Quark had people lined up for the others.There went four more people now.

Dr. Bashir, who was weird but okay, and Garak, who was weird and terrifying and always scrupulously polite to Rom, so that he felt compelled to be polite in return. Ahead of them were two humans: a white-haired man in a pale, old-fashioned outfit, and a redhead with spiky hair and one of the fancy suits Dr. Bashir sometimes wore to the holosuites. All four of them were talking about something, but the bar was too loud for even Rom to hear the words.

He looked at the time displayed on the data PADD Quark had ignored, the one he'd been using to run diagnostics on holosuites. His shift didn't end for hours, and Chief O'Brien was busy, anyway, trying to keep the station running for all the festival … festivities.

Rom clutched the data PADD to his chest. He would go by the replimat. Get a snail juice, make himself feel better.

It was nothing. It could wait.

Probably.

***

"This isn't a 1960s car," Bashir said, skeptically.

"Of course not, the cars in the 60s were terrible," Crowley said. He crouched by one of the Bentley's front wheels rubbed his sleeve against a tiny smudge on the hood. He could feel Aziraphale standing behind him, smiling, in the exact outfit he'd been partial to during the actual 1960s. Which unlike the cars was not terrible. 

All Crowley had to do was figure out how to dissuade the angel from this whole… Thinking that somehow another couple's silly argument was their problem to fix, thing.

Bashir made a tiny sound in the back of his throat and walked around the end of the car, hands clasped behind his back. He was still wearing his Starfleet uniform. A good sign, it meant he understood he hadn't actually been invited to _play_ the game. At least not as long as Crowley could talk faster than Aziraphale could, anyway. He said, reluctantly, "I suppose it does have panache."

"Panache," Crowley said, pushing his sunglasses up his nose. He glanced up to see Aziraphale smiling at him from across the hood and Garak at his side, frowning. "This is an original - replica of an original - 1933 Bentley, and the best he can come up with is _panache._ "

"It is a compliment, Crowley," Aziraphale said.

"Mmm."

Bashir rounded the end of the car and bent forward to squint at the interior. "I didn't think cars from the 1930s had stereo systems."

"Well, I think it's a magnificent automobile," Garak said, in the tones of one who was still deeply skeptical but determined to outdo the compliment that had already been laid out. He met Crowley's eyes across the roof of the car and Crowley grinned, secure in the knowledge that the lenses of his glasses were opaque. Garak smiled back and said, "I do have one question, though."

"Shoot," Crowley said.

"Why are there…" Garak made a small circling gesture with his hand, struggling to settle on the word he wanted. "Pictures," he said, "of broken glass stuck to the window?"

Crowley opened his mouth.

"They're bullet holes," Bashir corrected. "Bullet hole stickers, anyway."

"Yesss," Crowley said. He scratched his throat. "It's … a joke."

"Crowley has been using the same code for the Bentley since the first time he used a holodeck," Aziraphale added.

"Almost the same code," Crowley said. "Aziraphale put a bike rack on it, once."

"It was a very nice bike rack."

"Tartan straps." He folded his arms on the hood of the car and stretched his legs out. The setting he'd picked for the car chase was a bright summer afternoon in London. Old, familiar stomping grounds. Back when there'd been a lot more cars on the streets. He'd also upped the temperature some, and the simulated sun beating down on the back of his neck was almost good enough to make him want to sprawl over the Bentley's hood.

Aziraphale hummed. His eyes were bright and blue in the light, and the sun sparkled off his buttons. He said, "We should take Dr. Bashir and Mr. Garak around the block."

Crowley slumped against the side of the car. "I'm sure they want to get back to their lives."

"It would be … interesting to take one drive," Bashir said, slowly.

"Course it would," he muttered.

Inside the car, Garak said, "Admittedly my knowledge of ancient Earth vehicles is a little sparse, but on Cardassia our cars did not have inertial dampeners."

"Neither does this one," Crowley promised.

"Are there not restraints of some sort?"

"It took a while for humans to invent seat belts, Garak," Bashir said, dryly. He was sitting behind Crowley and in the rearview mirror his smile took up most of his face. He laid his arm out along the middle of the backseat, so his hand was just behind Garak's shoulder. He added, "Besides, it's just the holosuite. We'll be fine."

Crowley looked over at Aziraphale and turned the key in the ignition. Aziraphale started to speak.

Crowley slammed the pedal to the floor.

Automatically, Aziraphale put his hand up against the roof of the car. In the backseat Garak latched onto the door as best he could, and Bashir grabbed Garak's shirt as if that would be helpful at all. Crowley swung the Bentley onto the main road, choked with just enough traffic to make swerving and jumping through the lanes exciting, and took one hand off the wheel to flick the stereo on.

_Tonight, I'm gonna have myself a real good time…_

"I take it from the speed of the cars around us that this is the pace at which you play the game, not how humans ordinarily drove," Garak said.

"No, generally this speed would have gotten you ticketed if not arrested," Bashir said.

"If they can catch you," Crowley said.

He made a turn so abrupt that in the backset Bashir got slammed up against Garak's side. The two of them sputtered and flailed, arms tangling together, and Crowley winked at Aziraphale.

_I'm a shooting star, leaping through the sky-_

Aziraphale smiled at him. Warm sunlight cascaded through the windshield, across his face and the ascot tucked neatly around his throat. "I think it might be a good time to find a spot to let our guests off, my dear."

"If you think so." Crowley checked the rearview mirror, more out of habit than anything else, and groaned. "Actually, angel, now's not the best time."

_I'm burnin' through the sky, yeah!_

"Why not?"

Garak leaned forward slightly. "I believe he's referring to the fact that we are being followed," he said. He had one hand planted firmly on the seat and it clenched as the car bounced. Next to him Bashir had _his_ hand wrapped around Garak's upper arm, and had twisted around to look out the back window. They were indeed being followed, by three separate, speeding cars, each one larger and more intimidating than the last. The one in front had a guy hanging out the window trying to get a decent shot at them.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said. "Did you set the chase to start when you started driving?"

"May've done." Crowley flicked the car into another lane as the gun flared.

Aziraphale just gave him a look. It was not quite the sun-dappled smile from a moment ago, but there was definitely fondness in the exasperation. The car sang, _I wanna make a supersonic man out of you!_

Bashir said, "I mean," stopped, and cleared his throat. "If we're already in the middle of the chase, we might as well…"

"Of course you would say that," Garak said, fondness threaded through the exasperation. Crowley could tell. Thousands of years made him an expert in that kind of thing.

"If you'd like to leap from a moving vehicle through the holosuite door and back into Quark's, be my guest, but I for one am staying right here," Bashir said. His hand had shifted from Garak's arm to his shoulder, somehow.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale. "It'll only take a minute."

"I suppose we may as well," Aziraphale said.

Which was Crowley's cue to really start driving.

_Don't stop me now!_

***

Rom was fiddling with one of the replicators at the Replimat - his snail juice had tasted not quite right, and the lunch crowd had died off, anyway - when someone grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked. He reflexively latched onto his toolkit as whoever it was dragged him across the floor.

"What - Oh, it's you," he said. He managed to get to his feet, although it involved twisting around awkwardly as he did because Quark wouldn't let go of his shirt. As soon as he was standing, his brother started pushing him along the Promenade instead of pulling him. "Quark! What's wrong? Did something at the bar break?"

"No, because you're going to fix it," Quark ground out.

Rom tucked his toolkit underneath his arm. "It's the holosuite, isn't it?"

"No, it's the lights on dabo table number three, they're looking a little dim - Of course it's the holosuite!" Quark let go of him then, but only to whack his arm.

"Why didn't you just call me over the comm system? I would have come!"

Quark looked back and forth. People had started going back to work, at least those who weren't visiting just for the festival, but that still left a crowd. Quark drew close to Rom's side and lowered his voice. "Because," he said, "I didn't want to go shouting for everybody to hear that all but one of my holosuites went out at once."

"All but one of-" Rom yelped. He clamped his own hand over his mouth before Quark could hit him again.

Quark scowled. "Dumped a group of sailing Bajorans from the stern of a ship right onto the floor. We're lucky nobody got hurt. I had to talk Morn out of going to see Dr. Bashir for his elbow, oh, he kept going on and on about it, like we'd think he was riding a wild _targ_ instead of visiting a holographic Klingon petting zoo."

"He wouldn't have found Dr. Bashir anyway, he's in one of the holosuites," Rom said. When Quark turned to stare at him, he shrugged. "I saw him going in earlier, with Garak and two humans. I think they were tourists."

"Great." Quark shook his head. "So the people who are in my one functioning holosuite are two strangers, the Chief Medical Officer, and _Garak._ "

"Gosh," Rom said. "I hope they're not stuck there, like last time."

Quark growled.

He shouldn't have. For one thing, it was rude. For another, anyone being trapped inside the holosuite was the last thing he needed to worry about.


	2. Chapter 2

The thing about being in a car chase on the holodeck was that the traffic was preprogrammed not to be too much of a hassle. It wasn't technically that much different from miracling his way down the London streets of old, but until Crowley found a planet that still used private land vehicles en masse, he'd have to take what he could get.

In this case that meant taking the Bentley down the road at a triple-digit speed - because Aziraphale couldn't _tsk_ at him if it was keeping them from getting shot at - and neatly leaping his way between gaps in traffic.

A bus appeared. He spun the wheel, turned in the middle of the road, and gunned it out of the intersection. The car that'd been the closest to catching them caught the bus by the corner and tumbled over. (The bus was fine.)

"That was a close one," Garak said. He was holding onto the seat as best he could. His breaths were coming so evenly Crowley knew he must be counting them.

"Garak, I've seen you face down worse," Bashir said, a huge grin in his voice.

"With all due respect, Dr. Bashir, the last time I joined in on one of these games of yours, I ended up getting shot."

Crowley glanced up at the rearview mirror. Bashir's face flushed dark and his eyes skittered around the car. There was not a grin on his face now. He grumbled something that Crowley could've sworn was, "We agreed you were asking for it," and then he pointed out the window. "Crowley, four o'clock!"

"Four o'clock?" Garak asked, before the car yanked sideways again.

This time Crowley had not actually meant to move the Bentley so quickly that Bashir ended up in Garak's lap, but, well. If he were either of them, he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

From Garak's lap, one hand braced on the back window, Bashir said, "It's, uh. I meant someone was approaching from behind us, on the right."

"Oh, I see why you couldn't have just said 'Go left!'," Garak replied. He had both hands very carefully _not_ on Bashir.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, clearing his throat. There was a smile on his face that probably did not have to do with the fact that Crowley was sailing down the street now. "If you take the next right and go for a bit, we can drive over the bridge."

Bashir's face lit up. "Tower Bridge? You programmed in Tower Bridge?"

"Of course I did! But we're nowhere near there, this is just a normal bridge." Crowley was looking at Aziraphale, so he didn't roll his eyes. "Why d'you want to go over the bridge?"

"I was more thinking that our pursuers could go _over_ the bridge, my dear," Aziraphale said, nodding behind them.

Crowley stared at him for a second before a smile took over his face. "Angel!"

The radio asked, _Are you ready, hey, are you ready for this?_

"I know that we are not precisely fearing for our lives here," Garak said, tightly. "But could the person at the wheel of the car perhaps watch the road?"

"Huh? Oh. Yeah, yeah," Crowley said. He would've met Garak's eyes in the rearview mirror if it wasn't for the sunglasses. Instead he just looked back out the windshield. "Comfortable back there, Garak?"

"It is a very nice car," Garak said, primly.

By the time Crowley had slowed down - so the bad guys could catch up (this wouldn't work at all if the bad guys couldn't catch up) - Bashir was sitting next to Garak again, instead of on top of him. But he had also twisted around to watch the road behind them and give Crowley real-time updates on how close the other cars were. It wasn't necessary, but it was sort of like having live back-up he hadn't programmed himself, and that was fun.

On the bridge, Crowley let the Bentley slow down even more. Enough for their main enemy to pull up alongside them in a true monstrosity of a car. A boxy, pistachio-green clunker.

_How long can you stand the heat?_

The driver rolled his window down and held up a gun. "Looks like you couldn't outrun us after all, Mr. Crowley!"

Aziraphale had helpfully rolled down his own window, so Crowley's voice carried when he shouted back, "Needed you to outrun me!"

He saw the gunman blink. "What?"

He should've shot instead of shouting back. Crowley tested the brakes one more time. The Bentley fell behind just enough for him to tap its front wheel against the back wheel of their no-longer-pursuer's car.

The pistachio spun backward. It was still going fast enough that it flew across the lane in front of them. There, it smashed into the railing at the edge of the bridge and promptly tumbled over the metal bars into the water below. Crowley started laughing. The Bentley sang _And another one gone, and another one gone_ and in the backseat, Bashir let out a loud cry of triumph.

Then they crossed the end of the bridge and Crowley had to slam the brakes to the floor before they crashed straight into a group of Bajoran tourists.

Who screamed and scattered all over … the Promenade.

He turned to look behind them. There was the backseat. There were Garak and Bashir, staring out the windows, baffled, at what was decidedly not the holosuite.

***

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, his voice smooth and dry like a sheet of ice. "Are we on the Promenade?"

The other man didn't answer for a second. Instead he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel and made a show of turning his head back and forth, the lights of the station glinting off those ridiculous sunglasses of his. He made a long wordless sound like the curl of a question mark and finally said, "Looks that way."

"Why," Aziraphale said, the interior of the car now so cool that Julian wanted to rub his hands together against the chill, "are we on the Promenade?"

Garak asked, "There aren't holoprojectors on the Promenade, are there, Dr. Bashir?"

"You would know better than me."

"I was hoping that perhaps Starfleet had felt the need to add some," Garak said. He touched his hands together briefly, as if he too felt the new chill in the car, and Julian had to smother the urge to cover them with his own. Garak had on more than one occasion told him that he was far too small to make a good heat source (usually with his face buried in the crook of Julian's neck and his palms pressed flat to Julian's bare shoulders), and they were - regrettably - in public.

Very much in public.

There was a knock on his window and Julian swiveled to see Rom waving at him. "Dr. Bashir!" he said. "You're on the Promenade!"

"I… had noticed that, Rom. Thank you."

There was a knock on Garak's window, and Julian twisted to see Quark standing there. Garak asked, "Yes, Quark?"

Quark opened and shut his mouth. He was panting for breath, and when he lifted his hands, he made tiny grabbing motions. As if he was trying to strangle someone, but didn't know where he should start.

"Dr. Bashir," Garak said, all sweet concern. "I think Quark may be having a medical emergency."

"I think he'll be just fine," Julian said. He leaned forward into the front seat and tapped Crowley on the shoulder, which made the man jump and his sunglasses bounce on his face. He pushed them back into place and raised one eyebrow at Julian. Julian gestured at the door. "Perhaps we should… get out of the car?"

They did, Julian clambering through the front door from the passenger seat and hitting his shoulder on the way out. Naturally, Garak not only managed to look elegant while extricating himself from the backseat but also avoided bumping against anything.

The Bajoran tourists they'd nearly run over had crept back to the scene. There were quite a lot of them. They were all talking to each other. Half of them were gesturing at the car, and Julian heard several people say things along the lines of _"Came out of nowhere!"_ and _"This sure is going to make poor Dr. Bashir's afternoon really complicated."_

Okay. Nobody said the second one. Julian just would've appreciated the support. Especially since several people in Bajoran security uniforms had arrived.

"Dr. Bashir, care to explain what's going on here?"

His quarters. He could be in his quarters. He could've told that pharmaceutical salesman he didn't care about powdered painkillers that had only been tested on Ferenginar (that is, not tested at all) and made it to lunch on time. If he'd made it to lunch on time, Garak wouldn't be mad at him for being late the third time that week, and Julian could be in his quarters. He could be listening to Garak complain about him not being an adequate heat source, instead of Odo complaining about a scene on the Promenade.

"I don't know why you think I'm the one who needs to explain what's happening here," he said. "There are several more likely suspects."

Odo came to stand between Garak and Aziraphale. He crossed his arms over his chest and scoffed. "You're senior staff. Now, explain."

Julian pressed his lips together. He looked at the car, and then at Crowley, who was fiddling with his cufflinks, and then back at Odo. He said, "I haven't the faintest idea what's going on here, Constable."

"Constable?" Aziraphale asked.

"Constable Odo, chief of security," Odo said. He briefly flicked his eyes over Aziraphale and Crowley. "And you are?"

Aziraphale had been looking at Crowley and mouthing something that was probably _'Chief of security, Crowley,'_ but he turned to Odo at the question. Oh, wow. That smile was really something else. Julian blinked. He saw Garak blink, too. Aziraphale smiled like a man who was genuinely pleased to meet you and also absolutely not concerned about a wild holosuite malfunction. It strongly suggested that you should also not be concerned.

Odo did not blink.

"My name is Aziraphale. That's my husband, Crowley," he said. Crowley waved. "We really have no idea what's happened, Constable. We were simply running a holosuite simulation. Crowley, dear, didn't you say you purchased the code from Mr. Quark?"

"I did say that. That is a thing that I said."

"Wait, wait, wait. No one is blaming me for this!" All of Quark's speech came back to him at once. "I sold you a copy of another customer's program - Quark's retains second sale rights for all programs used on its equipment, Dr. Bashir, don't look at me like that, you didn't pay the opt-out fee. Odo, I didn't even buy that program for Dr. Bashir. He imported it himself. From a _friend._ "

"Thank you for making 'friend' sound like 'unsavory associate,' Quark," Julian said.

"Same difference."

"That's enough, Quark," Odo said. He turned to his deputies. "All right, let's clear the scene for Chief O'Brien."

As soon as Miles arrived the rest of them moved into the space the onlookers had vacated. Aziraphale and Crowley stood at one side of the Promenade, speaking to each other in low voices. Aziraphale had locked his hands behind his back, and Crowley was slouched against the wall. Garak drifted over to Julian's elbow, which was nice, except he was clearly only doing it to get a better look at the two humans.

Miles looked unhappier the longer he scanned the car. Eventually he turned that look on Julian, which was unfair.

"I already told Odo I don't know how this happened. One second we were in London, and the next we were out here. It's not my fault, Miles."

"It was your program, though," Miles said.

Julian scowled.

"I don't know what to tell you. These readings don't make any sense. If this is a hologram, it's fooling my scans."

Odo asked, "Chief, are you trying to tell me that's a _real_ 1927-"

"1933," Crowley corrected.

Odo looked pained. "A real 1933 Earth vehicle? That's impossible."

"So is the four of them appearing out on the Promenade when the holosuites are on the second level of Quark's," Miles said. He had crouched in front of the car, but didn't seem to be scanning any longer. He squinted and reached out to poke at a tire. "I can't find a trace of transporter activity anywhere in the station's logs. And the tricorder didn't show any signs either."

"Aziraphale, you said that Crowley has been using the same code for the car for some time now," Garak said. "Is it possible the code has become corrupted?"

"Oi." Crowley straightened up. "The Bentley is not corrupted."

"And I would never imply that it was. I am merely suggesting that the code may have, ah, reacted adversely with our unique station."

Both Crowley and Aziraphale just stared at Garak.

Julian explained, "He means that Deep Space Nine is a mishmosh of outdated Cardassian tech, Federation advancements, Bajoran infrastructure, and whatever Quark has smuggled in without getting caught. There's no telling what a hiccup in the holosuite system could result in."

"You make the station sound like a wreck," Miles said.

Julian looked at his friend and said, in all earnestness, "Sometimes I think it's haunted."

"Julian, it's not _haunted._ She's in rough shape, but the station is fine. She's just been through a lot."

"Oh, Chief, I've been hearing those kinds of rumors for years," Garak said. He met Julian's gaze and his blue eyes were glimmering. "Customers have told me all sorts of things. Strange noises on the Promenade late at night. Odd wailing in the corridors. Apparitions of Gul Dukat when a Bajoran walks somewhere that used to be strictly Cardassians-only."

"Dukat isn't even dead," Miles complained.

"I know. It's a pity."

"You can't be a ghost if you're not dead!"

"I'm just reporting what I've been told, Chief."

Odo stepped in - literally, stepping between Miles and Julian - and shook his head. "Whatever it is, gentlemen, I want it _off_ my Promenade."

Miles shot one last glare Julian's way before tucking the tricorder back into his toolkit. "I'd say we could push it into a storage bay but it won't fit in a lift."

Crowley took a big step forward. "We're not pushing it anywhere. It's got a perfectly fine engine. If it's in the way, I'll just drive it out of the way."

"From what I understand from the Earth books I've read," Odo said, "cars used a flammable liquid as a power source. And they let out a lot of pollution."

"Don't have to worry about that, there's no petrol in the tank," Crowley said, which made absolutely no sense. He caught the look on Julian's face and made a come-on gesture, like Julian was just being slow. "Didn't… program any in. Why bother?"

Julian said, "You took the time to program in that the petrol tank was empty."

Crowley replied, in a very a-ha voice, "Would've had to take the time to tell the computer the petrol tank _wasn't_ empty, otherwise."

Miles asked, "Wait a minute. You work with holodecks? Why am I the only one trying to fix this?"

"What kinds of Earth books have you been reading, Constable?" Aziraphale asked.

Everyone turned to look at him.

Another one of those smiles shone at them. "Sorry," he said. "This seems like a technical person's problem. Thought I would make conversation while they were figuring things out."

Even with the sunglasses, it was obvious that Crowley's irritation had completely melted away when he looked at his husband. He said, teasingly, "Aziraphale doesn't even have a voice-controlled computer in his shop."

"Archive," Aziraphale said.

"Uh-huh. You miss customers."

"I do not!"

Crowley grinned. It wasn't quite the knockout glow that passed for a smile on Aziraphale's face, but it was infectious all the same. Julian felt a brief pang of bitter jealousy. Then he forced himself to grin and glance at Garak, who was also sort of staring at Crowley's grin. (And Julian absolutely did not feel a second jealous pang. Nope.)

"Can we please get back on task?" Odo asked.

The grin went away as soon as Miles said, "So if you write holodeck programs…" and he and Crowley got tangled up in technical details that weren't interesting enough to pay attention to. Something about holosuites being prone to 'wandering' and taking over power supplies they weren't supposed to, and wouldn't you have thought whoever designed the hardware would've tried to prevent that kind of thing?

While they were busy, Odo said, "I've … been reading classic detective novels."

"Delightful! I have some excellent recommendations, if you'd be interested."

***

Quark sat in the driver's seat of the Bentley and very gingerly touched his hands to the wheel.

"I really can't recommend doing that," Aziraphale said.

Crowley and Chief O'Brien had gone into the bar and up to the holosuites. Crowley's complaints that he didn't know a thing about hardware had faded into the crowd just about the time Quark had walked out of it, making a beeline for the now-unoccupied car. Aziraphale had been too distracted talking to Odo to stop Quark before he reached the door. And Aziraphale did like Quark - he reminded him of the snake oil salesmen Crowley had always had such fun running circles around - but Crowley wouldn't like someone else sitting at the wheel.

"It's not like you can take it home with you. All the way back to Earth."

"I think Crowley would certainly try."

"He'd never get it onto a ship. Besides, he can just make another one when he gets back to Earth," Quark protested. "Come on. I know you're human, but even humans can be bought. What's he in for? Latinum? Rare holosuite programs? I have suppliers for all sorts of real alcohol…"

"Humans can have their moments," Aziraphale agreed. "And Crowley and I do appreciate a good drink. But the Bentley isn't for sale. What would you even use it for?"

"I can think of a few things. Scenic rides along the Promenade for a start."

"You can't drive a car along the Promenade, Quark," Odo said.

Quark waved him off. "We'll work something out," he said. He looked through the windshield at curious passerby, and Aziraphale imagined that latinum signs danced in his head. "It'll be a tourist attraction. The best one on the station, even better than the wormhole. The permanent hologram!"

And then the Bentley vanished, and Quark dropped to the floor.

Bashir was still laughing when Crowley ambled out of the bar a moment later, the station's chief of engineering just behind him. "Told you it'd work, O'Brien!"

"What did you do, Chief?" Garak asked.

"Oh." O'Brien glanced at Crowley and realized that he was being left on his own to explain, because Crowley had walked over to slide his arm around Aziraphale's waist. "Isolated the problem. Sequestered the one holosuite from all the others. Lowered the power levels to critical, cleared the processors, wiped all the volatile memory, brought it back up. Good to go."

Crowley smirked. "We turned it off and back on again."

"That _worked?"_ Aziraphale asked, perhaps a shade too sharply, from the way Garak's eyes suddenly landed on them.

"Yep! Told him it would. Just like that," Crowley said, snapping his fingers.

Aziraphale relaxed. "Ah, of course."

Garak's expression grew incredibly skeptical. Aziraphale pretended he didn't notice.

"Chief, I don't care how you fixed it. Just tell me that this can't happen again," Odo said.

O'Brien pulled out his tricorder to scan the area where the car had been. Tricorders were such neat devices.[1]

"I'll tell you whatever you want as long as you don't hold me to it, Constable. I'm not reading any kind of residue whatsoever. Still no signs of any transporter activity, either. Can't begin to tell you what happened or how to stop it from happening again," O'Brien said. 

"You could simply not run that program again," Aziraphale suggested.

Both O'Brien and Bashir shot him - respectively - insulted and wounded looks. Oh, poor dears. They must be used to playing the game together.

He held both hands up, palms out. "My apologies. Perhaps we'll simply avoid running the edited version of the program. I am sorry you won't get to finish, Crowley."

"No worries. You save the world once, you've saved it a thousand times. Dinner?"

Aziraphale looked at Odo, who had leaned over O'Brien's shoulder and was peering at the tricorder readout as if it would say something different. "Are we free to go, Constable?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. If I have any follow-up questions, I'll be in touch."

Aziraphale tucked his arm through Crowley's. "It was nice to meet you, Mr. Garak. Dr. Bashir. Perhaps we'll see you again before we leave."

"Hopefully not in the infirmary," Bashir said, and smiled. It was a charming smile. A little rakish. Aziraphale saw why Garak would be so enamored of it.

"Definitely not," Crowley agreed. He tugged Aziraphale a little closer. "Let's go, angel."

Garak didn't reply, just inclined his head.

They started to walk back to their temporary quarters on the station.

Crowley waited until they were all the way in the habitat ring to say, "Thought I was never going to have a moment to miracle the car gone. O'Brien must have eyes on the back of his head. Engineers, can't trust the lot of them."

"I'm glad you found a moment. I didn't relish the thought of continuing to play dumb in front of that Constable," Aziraphale said. "I think he's still suspicious."

"Should be, shouldn't he?" Crowley drawled.

He swiped open the door of their quarters, shut the door behind them, and snapped his fingers to change into casual dress. The sunglasses stayed. The tuxedo vanished and was replaced by a wrapped, long-sleeved tunic made of black material that caught the light in iridescent glimmers when Crowley turned. Aziraphale took a moment to appreciate the sight before looking down to consider his own outfit.

"You don't need to change, do you?" Crowley asked, tapping the ascot at Aziraphale's throat.

"I do look a tad old-fashioned."

Crowley grinned, luxuriously slow, and linked his hands together behind Aziraphale's neck. "Yes," he said. "You do."

"You old serpent," Aziraphale said, fondly, and kissed him.

***

Still on the floor, Quark sighed and put his elbows on his knees. "I was going to have the quadrant's only powerless hologram…"

"You were never going to have anything of the kind, Quark," Odo said. "Get up."

Miles packed away his tricorder and waved, heading off to fix something else that had decided to break. Quark reluctantly clambered to his feet and rubbed his hands over his face as he stumbled back into the bar, Odo at his heels. In the empty space they had vacated, where the car had been resting, the normal Promenade traffic resumed.

Garak said, "There's something strange about our new friends. Can't puzzle it out." He sighed. "This has turned out to be quite the afternoon."

"Much better than a meeting with a Ferengi pharmaceutical representative."

"Glad to know what company you were keeping instead of attending lunch," Garak said, dryly. He held up a hand when Julian opened his mouth to protest. "No, no, I understand. You have your responsibilities."

"If I'd been on time for lunch, Garak, you'd already be back in your shop. You'd have missed all the fun."

Garak looked at him from the corner of his eye. He smiled a much smaller smile than either Aziraphale or Crowley had this afternoon. But this smile was just for Julian, which made it perfect. "I suppose you want to be thanked."

"It would be appreciated."

"I'll make a note of that," Garak said. He stepped away from the wall and turned in the direction of his shop, notably without thanking Julian.

Julian followed, clasping his hands together behind his back. All the festival attendees meant that the Promenade was still crowded even though it was early for dinner. It meant that Julian had to walk right next to Garak to avoid being split apart. Their shoulders bumped together when they walked around a corner. Garak didn't pull away.

"I'm pleased they fixed this and we got out of there before dinnertime," Julian said. "I have some Delavian chocolates in my quarters that I was looking forward to."

Garak briefly shut his eyes, then shook his head. It was almost as good as another smile. It was the kind of expression Julian could usually tease a smile out of, anyway. "That was painfully unsubtle. I thought I'd taught you better than that."

"You've taught me just fine, Garak. I think I've learned the lessons I need to."

Garak laughed. "Is that a promise, my dear Doctor?"

They stepped into a lift together. Julian said, "I'm a Starfleet officer. I always keep my word. Computer, habitat ring."

"Yes, that's your one persistent flaw."

"You like my flaws."

"I do like Delavian chocolates," Garak compromised. "I assume you won't be so boorish as to brag about your acquisition and not invite me back to your quarters to share them."

The lift opened on the appropriate level, to an empty corridor. Julian gently wrapped his hand around Garak's elbow and steered him out of the lift. Garak's arm was firm under his grip, but he didn't try to shake himself free or resist Julian pulling him down the corridor.

"I promise to at least give you one."

"I marvel at Federation generosity."

Julian nudged Garak through the door to his quarters and, immediately, up against the wall as the door slid automatically shut behind them. "I've been told I can be very generous."

Garak settled his hands on Julian's hips. "What's that human expression? 'Prove it'?"

***

_Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?_

"I don't understand. This isn't stranger than your usual music. A little on the nose, maybe," Chief O'Brien said.

_Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality…_

"It's not. my. music," Quark growled. He took a deep breath and put his hands down on the bar. In the background, the speakers implored them to _Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see…_ "It's been playing on loop for three hours. Do you understand what an earworm is, Chief?"

"Yeah. It's a catchy song."

"No!" Quark slammed both fists against the bar. "It's a crime. Do you know you aren't allowed to play the same song twice within six hours in a Ferengi establishment? No, of course you didn't. Humans don't know anything about Ferenginar."

_Didn't mean to make you cry…_

Chief O'Brien stared at him, unsympathetically, for a long minute. All the humans on this station were like that. It was what came of having small ears. Their brains had trouble listening. He leaned over the counter and asked in a low voice, "Why don't you just turn it off?"

_Too late, my time has come…_

Quark explained, "The stereo is off. I turned it off. I turned it back on again. I turned it off again. I punched it. I pried open the panel and cut the power supply." He gestured at the nearest speaker, which rather aptly whined _I sometimes wish I'd never been born at all._ "Nothing. I do. Works. Rom was in here and couldn't even fix it. Which is why I insisted that ops send you. You have got to do something about this."

"I'll see what I can do, but I only stopped by here on my way to the docking ring."

"Chief! You can't leave me like this."

"I'll be back, but the docking ring needs looking after first," Chief O'Brien said, already walking out the door. "Just… try to ignore it!"

Quark put his head down on the bar.

_I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1. Once, while very drunk and having a rather one-sided argument about whether he'd register as a snake, Crowley had checked into tricorders. It turned out that one of Anathema's descendents had worked on some little bit of the scanning mechanism in the originals, still used in the current models, and Aziraphale had never been able to stop thinking of the things as _devices._↩
> 
> *Footnote generated with thedeadparrot's footnote formatter: https://codepen.io/thedeadparrot/full/mdyXyzw


End file.
